Composition
by LifeInABox66
Summary: You cannot have a life so tightly entwined with art – or anything – without seeking some form of clarity on the matter. Even if there is no way of obtaining it, you search anyway – perhaps all the more voraciously. Romano-centric.


**Happy birthday, shrieking minties 51! Regrettably, my Mafia powers are not sufficient to transport me all the way to Australia, nor have I the resources to buy you a pet elephant – therefore, here is the promised Romano fic! **

_**Subjectivity**_

Romano lies on his side, head propped up by the caged fingers of one hand, one eye screwed shut. With the other, from the vantage point of a grass-speckled hill, he lazily absorbs the details of the landscape before him. Green vies with green, producing a warmly illuminated spectacle of colour. The delicate, sun-curled leaves are scattered dryly around arching branches and twisting vines, set against slices of pastel brown. Every small refuge of shadow is offset by vast swathes of drowsy, glistening light. All is intricate, radiant and slightly thirsting.

There is something in beauty which frustrates him.

Grass, dust and broken twigs prickle his side. He wriggles a little.

Something in beauty which demands capture, tempts possession. Something in this sight which seems to dare him to do exactly that. This land is _him, _but the view is not his.

Hasn't stopped many from trying, of course; attempting possession, that is, through either reflection or inspiration. Painting is not capture, but imitation. Because yes, it is art that he is thinking of, in a haphazard sort of way.

"So pretty, hmm?" And yes, there is Veneziano, chirruping happily next to him. Flat on his back, head resting upon folded arms, dirt mingling with the edges of his hair. "It's enough to make anyone happy, just sitting here and watching, and sort of resting in the sun like it's water surrounding you – and it's peaceful enough to make you want to sleep, but you want to stay awake too. So you end up somewhere in between!" And he yawns, as if to prove the point, ending in a contented sigh.

Romano feels a tug of resistance; if he felt the same emotions as Veneziano earlier, he certainly does not feel it any longer. "Stop trying to describe everything. I don't want to talk about it; I want to live it." Then, because that sounds a touch too cloyingly whimsical, he adds: "You're making it stupid." He has broken something fragile. Restlessly, he shifts onto his stomach.

Veneziano just laughs, eliciting another twinge of irritation somewhere around the vicinity of Romano's chest. It irks him enough to sit up fully; restful observation now seems somewhat babyish. His stare deepens, as he narrows his eyes at the azure sweep of sky.

"Romano?" Veneziano peers at him, concernedly. "Don't be mad. It makes your face crease up and looks all unhappy! Like you're trying to fight something. I'm sorry. Sorrysorrysorry!"

"For what?" says Romano, snappishly.

"I don't know!" He looks so helpless, so naively contrite. The irresistible benignity of it somehow impels Romano's face to smooth, and Veneziano's to ease out of its anguish. Simultaneous grins tug steadily at the corners of their mouths.

"No, I'm sorry," says Romano, even if he feels he has to tortuously wrench the words out of his throat before they are able to fly free. Even if the very thought of forming them causes that little lump of irritation in him to curdle and sting. Even if his various little inner traps prevent him from going any further, from risking intensification of the discomfort.

It is worth it, for ultimately, they are both happier.

Romano reaches over and clasps Veneziano's hand, giving it a confident squeeze. "I agree, anyway," he says, still smiling. "Sort of."

A lone cloud has stumbled by onto the clear, empty expanse of blue – ridiculously frail, like a lost, slow-moving sheep. With his free hand, Veneziano points to it and giggles. Romano simply looks, and wonders if he could trace its complex outline, map its intricate contours, if that would somehow be adequate, or worthwhile, or a close approximation thereof.

* * *

_**Dialectic**_

Light works its way through the window, falling across the table, splashed into odd shapes across the dark wallpaper. Deepening the contrast of the crimson roses in the glimmering crystal vase.

"Art?" says France, running the gleaming tips of his fingernails along the edge of his hairline, allowing his hand to rest halfway along his scalp, against which he leans. "Art is a collective endeavour."

"Yes, you keep saying that," grumbles Romano, irritably. "But you won't explain _why._"

"I was waiting for you to supply a definition of your own. In keeping with the philosophy I wish to demonstrate. Is that circular? Perhaps the explanation was, though not the impulse." He closes his eyes, as though concentrating on thoughts inscribed on their lids.

"Say something that _means _something," Romano orders, realising the conversation runs a serious risk of becoming sidetracked. This prompts a wry grin from his companion, whose lips part to speak. Hastily, Romano arrests whatever half-formed quip France is planning to give with: "And _don't _go into what constitutes the meaning of meaning. Don't say something only you would find funny. Just explain. Shouldn't be difficult."

"It is impossib – ah," says France, this time preventing himself before Romano is forced to do so in his place. "No, you will not like that answer. I was on the verge of proceeding to unravel the concept of difficulty. But I see you would not be appreciative." He shakes his head, sadly, causing a strand of hair to flop in front of his eyes. (A blink of mild surprise, following that.)

"Too right. Idiot." France attempts to cuff him playfully on the arm for that, but Romano dodges cheerfully.

France, it occurs to Romano, will do anything to avoid saying something of substance. An abstract rambler, slung with a dash of sociability and a severe streak of narcissism into absurdly effeminate shirts and expensive shoes: this is the philosopher-nation who sits before him.

"All right," smiles France, settling back into his chair, somehow managing to combine slouching with elegance. "To the point, then? The purpose of art is human connection. Art is a partnership between audience and creator."

"Uh-huh," says Romano. And listens.

"Art is dialectic. Two opposing viewpoints: that of artist – thesis - and viewer – antithesis – to form an uneasy synthesis in critical reception." He disentangles the one hand from his hair and laces it together with the other, seemingly satisfied with this synopsis.

A pause.

"Bullshit," decides Romano, fixing France with a pointed glare.

"Probably," agrees France, a further smile playing upon his lips. "As is any attempt to foist a definition on an organic concept. And yet I still hold by the connection principle."

"Tch. You sound like England."

"Good God, I hope not."

"You do," insists Romano. "I asked him the same sort of things. He started doing his Oscar Wilde routine at me. Went on about how art is about nothing but beauty: 'art for art's sake', 'all art is utterly useless' and all that. He sounded about as smug as you do right now, like you're half laughing at yourself for sounding so ridiculous, and half laughing at me for asking."

"I am not laughing at anyone." Smirk.

"You're doing it right now!"

"Am not." Mischievous sidelong glance.

"Not _quite _as bad as England," concedes Romano, grudgingly. "He even started doing that hand thing. You know, sort of twirling his fingers, like he's trying to punctuate the point. It looked so goddamn stupid I wanted to throw the teacup at him."

France laughs – a long, fluttering peal of mirth. "Quite right. Mess with _Angleterre's _tea, and you will experience a far more aggressive side to him. Monstrous, in fact."

"You're both monsters," mutters Romano. "Simpering ones."

France simply _looks _at him, quizzical and piercing from behind the tips of his twined fingers.

"Stop that," says Romano, looking away, uneasily. "Seriously. It's weird."

"You prefer to be the subject, not the object, no?" says France. "A pity. You make such a charming study." He tilts his head to the side, still watching.

Romano clenches his fingers into fists as his face flushes uncomfortably. He focuses on how the nails bite into the flesh, too blunt to pierce. He watches the dust motes twirl in the bright air.

"_Angleterre _would object if he heard me say this," says France, abandoning scrutiny to resume the conversation. "But he does not mean anything he says. The idea itself is art – and, thus, in continuation of its own proposal, utterly useless. It is not intended to be put into practice. It is intended to be admired."

"A decorative philosophy?" snorts Romano, sceptically.

"No – a beautiful one."

A creak of antique floorboards, and another figure enters, interrupting the discussion – which seems to have been drawn to a conclusion regardless. "Sorry for disappearing like that, Romano," says Spain, closely followed by Prussia. "Had to go buy some more beer, and then we ran into Germany on the way, so we stopped for a bit. Hope you weren't too bored without me!"

"On the contrary – we have been having the most illuminating conversation," announces France.

"Bored out of my mind," says Romano, vindictively.

* * *

_**Opposition**_

"It's really nice at night, particularly in winter, where you can see the tree branches against the sky, all dark and spidery, and it makes me shiver!" Veneziano bounces a little, as they walk through the darkened streets. "We should paint it. Together. I've always wanted to paint it."

Romano says nothing, for he has always had similar feelings about this scene, and feels rather as though he has been robbed.

"Romanooo...?"

"What's the point, Veneziano?" he asks. A variation on a question he has taken to asking everyone.

"Of painting?" Veneziano's nose crinkles; he is confused and upset. Yet, quick as a flash, it resolves itself, and he is smiling through the shadows once more. "It makes me happy, of course. And then, if it's good enough, it makes other people happy too!"

"Beauty, you mean?" asks Romano, vaguely.

"I guess! Enjoyment, more than anything," replies Veneziano.

Art is Veneziano's life. It is his natural medium, his greatest joy.

It is Romano's torment, and it is his obsession.

Veneziano bounds ahead, chasing the glow of the moon. Then he turns, happily waiting for Romano to follow, hopping daintily from foot to foot.

* * *

_**Reality**_

"Art is what's real. You know. Realism." This coming from America, who pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose – slightly shiny with sweat, for the day is clear and warm – and smiles as though he has resolved the matter for good.

England looks as though he has been forced to swallow something toxic. "_Philistine,_" he snaps.

"What_?_" asks America, taken aback.

"It isn't just _reflection. _Moron. Creationis so much more than petty mimicry." England seems genuinely affronted.

Romano considers interjecting with a few of France's arguments, but concludes that he values his limbs, and, with some effort, keeps his silence.

"Well, where does the _creation_ come from if you can't take it from what's real?" demands America, pointing an accusing finger at England's face.

England ignores it, staring pointedly at America's eyes instead. "One can draw inspiration from reality. One should. One _must_. This does not, however, entail imitation. That's such a facile mistake to make." He rolls his eyes.

America raises a disgusted eyebrow. "You couldn't sound more pompous if you _tried._"

Romano gets the perverse impression that England is indeed trying. And, for that matter, succeeding. Valiantly.

England does the _hand thing _again, as though attempting to toss the somniferous debate to the winds. "Realism takes the one essential element away from art – tears its heart out, in fact. And that is imagination." He enunciates the last few syllables with a sense of finality.

A pause, and America begins talking about football instead.

* * *

_**Reflection**_

It is night, and the dark obscures everything but the dull gleam of his fingers, flickering in the air. He lies on his back, on the bed, window propped open, allowing the moonlight to hit his skin. His fingers have always been stupid and stubby and he hates them, a little. Austria has a pianist's fingers. Veneziano has an artist's. France has a rake's. All of them are long, and slender, and delicate. He twists his own, contemplatively, flexing them like claws, and twirling them as though he could snatch music from the air.

He has stared balefully at the mirror for centuries – since mirrors were _invented _– trying to document the flaws of his features, just as he has stared hopelessly at his art, attempting to draw out its imperfections, since he first started _creating _things. And then, having dissected everything frustrating about them, he has tried to piece together the remainders and create some semblance of beauty. Which, naturally, never works, as he has already singled out all that makes it ugly. And he thinks it is about time to give in: to hell with this. Trouble is, he has always told himself that, and never been all that convinced, because like it or not, he still cares. A lot.

All of this, amongst other things, makes him wonder if art is necessarily beauty, after all.

England is wrong, then.

And Romano does not think that mirroring, or simply representing what already exists, is enough.

So England is right in thinking America is wrong.

Romano does not think art exists _just _for enjoyment.

Veneziano isn't quite right, then, either.

As for France; France is wrong too, but it is a special, ineffable sort of wrong. The kind of wrong which carries a signpost on its border saying _this way lies rightness. _Which, in itself, is an accomplishment of sorts.

As for rightness itself – well, this is art. Obviously any sense of objectivity is illusory; any definition is inherently flawed.

This does not prevent anyone from searching. Not at all. Encourages them, if anything, and Romano is no exception. You cannot have a life so tightly entwined with art – or anything – without seeking some form of _clarity _on the matter. Even if there is no way of obtaining it, you search anyway – perhaps all the more voraciously.

* * *

_**Performance**_

Through the window, trees hang languid in the breeze. Two very stupid birds titter amidst the branches, chasing one another with clumsy, lolloping wing beats and preening their idiotic feathers as though aware that the other is watching in fascination. Beneath the greenery, a finely sculpted marble fountain resides; the tumultuous water casts a shadow on the floor, through which pass glints of sunlight - one rippling stream of _chiaroscuro. _The full scene glimmers crystal through its frame.

In a fit of aristocratic pretension, twined with longing for a revival of the nineteenth century, Austria has arranged for a musical recital at his house. Solitary and smooth-haired at the piano, he sways in the billowing sound, leaning into every phrase with gentle ardour.

Chopin's _Fantaisie Impromptu_ is an astounding piece of music, and Austria is a phenomenal player, but he is butchering it – in front of a throng of ten or so Nations, no less, slumped lazily against straight-backed chairs.

It is impressive, yes, but the idiot refuses to _lose _himself; instead of gliding through mists of fantasy, with sheer joy of appreciation, he is focussing on playing as many notes as possible. He wants to impress with technique – all flair and no feeling – rather than play for the sake of playing. The piece ought to be lithe, fleet and graceful; instead it succeeds in being perfectly in time, and little else.

And yet. There are moments in which he _does _lose himself, sinking into the music with a sigh of fluttering keys, soaring on the breathy plumes of each note. But only for a few moments, because he is far too damn careful to control himself. He has clipped and tamed his technique, paring it down into what he must feel is suitable for a modern, semi-apathetic audience. He has decided that there is no hope of moving them, thus he must astonish them instead – thrill them with pace and refinement. Plucked the damn heart out.

It is not usually _like _this at all. Not by Romano's memory. Through fuzzy, half-dimmed images of his early life, he recalls feeling, and passion in the playing – emotion made liquid, made music. Is Austria playing games with them?

France leans over and murmurs in England's ear: "He is far too aware of his audience." And then he does not bother to lean back, staying where he is - lips poised a fraction away from his neighbour's cheek. England raises an arm and pushes him away with the flat of his hand, without taking his eyes off the piano; France ducks away, smirking.

Romano softly shushes them. They both blink, simultaneously, in surprise, as though silence from the observers is an unusual demand for a piano recital.

Dense, the both of them. No sense of tact. They make a _terrible_ audience.

Romano fidgets for a few seconds.

He leans over to Veneziano. Hisses: "He's too busy trying to show off to actually play well."

Veneziano looks taken aback, shivering, as though the thought perplexes him. He looks curiously at Romano, hurt and bemused for Austria's sake, then hastily directs his gaze back to the music. Romano glimpses at the other Nations, all lined up in teetering rows, caught in various poses of relaxation. They all stare forwards, faces rapt, eyes glittering – caught in the spectacle. Only Romano and France seem to have noted the something in the performance which diminishes its perfection – the clipped, stilted hint of formality.

Afterwards, they move to the living room, for the obligatory _apfelstrudel. _Romano lingers in the doorway, half hidden, watching Austria sift through sheet music.

Behind him, Hungary moves to wrap her arms gently around his neck. She is singing under her breath – snatches of a song she performed earlier during the recital: _Madarka, Madarka. _An old folk tune.

Austria turns. "I was not on good form today," he comments, lightly.

She rolls her eyes, breaking off the song. "You were doing it deliberately, weren't you?"

Austria opens his mouth, then closes it, inconclusively. He finally says: "Now why would I do that?" The tone is even, and convincing, but the pause gives away all.

"Beats me," shrugs Hungary, with a degree of resigned fondness. "To test them, I guess. Or to test yourself. Or something."

She begins to sing once more. Romano remains rooted to the spot, entranced by her voice; it echoes with disarming clarity. The throb of vibrato fills the room, arcing across the ceiling, washing against the windows. This, it occurs to Romano, is not a performance, but a _moment _– and reflects perfectly how whilst the former is contrived, the latter is organic – _alive. _

"Yes. Yes, exactly," says Austria, once the last full notes have petered out – and Romano knows he is referring to an identical observation. "Exactly my point."

Hungary nods, at once understanding. "But we're musicians. We _can _make a performance sound like that; it's all a case of living it, unconsciously."

Austria dismisses this as though it has all occurred to him before, many times, with equal inaccuracy. Hence, the immediate counter: "It is never good enough."

Hungary lets out a hiss of breath; this is clearly an argument to which they are prone. "One day, maybe it will be. For now – it'll do. Before, you were selfish." She points at him, coquettishly. "Play properly now," she demands. Imperatively, she taps a foot. _Click._

Austria begins to play _Fantaisie Impromptu_ for the second time – and this time around it is all that Romano remembers, and better. He leans against the doorframe, eyes closed, submerged in the sound. Austria can be a prig, but far be it from Romano to doubt his devotion to music.

"Better," says Hungary, as the last cadences ebb away. "That's what it's meant to be: wild and uncontrolled. It's not art unless it doesn't get a little bit out of hand. Boundaries are _supposed_ to be tested."

* * *

_**Negation**_

"Art?" repeats Prussia, as though he has never come across the word before, or never expected to hear it from Romano's mouth. "Tch. No need for theories. Kid. Nothing to do with beauty and shit. Art's just completely fucked up."

* * *

_**Origin**_

It won't _work._

Romano leans over the paper, stabbing with the paintbrush so that the bristles splay out in a broken fan, slamming a small semicircle of colour over his efforts.

_He is very, very young, and the recollection has half misted over, like a glass picture frame left outside overnight in the damp cold. _

A dense, twisty lump of frustration tenses somewhere below his throat. His eyebrows collide painfully as he squints at his work, hoping the tendency for tears will be absorbed by sheer force of will alone.

A warm, heavy hand lands on his shoulder. A flash of surprise jolts through him.

"Romano." He twists his head, and it is Grandpa Rome, face blinking warmly from far, far above. "Little one, you look so sad! Don't be sad, hmm?" He crouches next to Romano, and tousles his hair, sandy fingers tickling his scalp.

Romano leans into the hand, and makes an unhappy _hnn _noise - something caught between pique and sorrow. "Won't _work. _Not like Veneziano's."

Rome moves back to study the crumpled painting, face screened by a look of serious contemplation. "Mm. I'm not sure I see what you mean. It looks quite decent to me."

He gives the work far more consideration than it merits. What Romano has produced is a child's scrawl – a blurry mess of watery paint, colours leaking nastily into each other, forming vague, unrecognisable images. Try as he might, Romano cannot give shape to his thoughts, or scrape together a representation of the scene before him; clumsy hands and untrained eyes restrain him.

_These thoughts never reached him before, of course – they are retrospective footnotes, little taglines attached with the advantage of age. He wonders if the memories have warped, like ancient paint. _

"'S'_horrible_..." whispers Romano – but the word contains a breath of hope; he is desperate to be contradicted.

"Not at all," says Rome, smiling like a large, benevolent sun. He allows a moment for the comfort of his words to sink through. "Although I will say the one thing."

Romano blinks, questioningly. "Uh... huh?"

"Try not to put yourself into the painting. Try to externalise it. Otherwise you'll ruin it."

Romano furrows his brow in confusion. He thinks sceptically that it would be difficult to _further _ruin the mess on the page before him.

Rome sighs. "Or, all right, too complex. Um. How to put this. Try not to let your worries show in the picture. You see? IF you let all the nasty, sad thoughts get in the way, they'll slow you down. Be free. Lose yourself!" He laughs, and Romano giggles too; their voices blend in brief, bubbling harmony.

Romano has never since allowed one little gush of himself slip into his artwork. If he blends everything that is ineffable into the paint, staining the fabric of the canvass with esoteric abstraction, the viewer will observe the creation, not the artist. All eyes on the easel, gazes directed safely away from him. And if they never once see the painter behind the painting, Romano is just fine with that. There is nothing there to see, anyway.

* * *

_**Statement**_

Russia scrutinises him with heavy, half-dead eyes. He tells Romano, voice incongruously resonant and wry: "Art is a political act."

* * *

_**Denouement**_

"Spain, you bastard, pick up the phone!" Familiar words, those. Far, far too familiar; they trip merrily off his tongue with the ire automatically infused. "Spain! I'm at the convenience store, and it's fucking _in_convenient. I'm walking down the paint aisle and the fumes are making me choke. Get your ass over here and rescue me before I suffocate, otherwise I'm going to collapse right in the middle of the warehouse, in front of all these people. So unless you want me to cause a huge panic, you'd better get here _now. _I'm warning you! I _will _fall unconscious. People are already staring. Spain? ... Moron? ... Wait, this is _voicemail! _The fuck?" _Click._

He wrenches his gaze from the somewhere-irrelevantly-in-the-distance to focus upon his immediate surroundings.

Yes, people are staring. Oh yes.

As a consequence he has, in all likelihood, turned toma– _cherry_ red. Damn it. He despises the way eyes have the capability to rake and tear across the face. Hates being the _object _of a gaze.

Romano shrinks back into the rows of paint; there follows an embarrassingly loud clattering noise as if to emphasise this fact.

A woman looks at him, and opens her mouth – seemingly poised to ask something perilously akin to _are you OK?_ Romano arrests this with a smouldering glower, silencing the words of concern before they have the chance to be expressed.

He focuses on the shelves of paint instead. Scarcely aware of what he is searching for, he runs a reverent finger across the sleek metal tubes of acrylic, glossy and undented. Gives a cursory glance to the large tubs of poster paint – the once-immaculate rows now in disarray after the recent collision. He allows his eyes to flicker over the gradient of colour, mentally eliminating each drab, uninspiring hue until only his favourites remain glowing before him. On impulse, he seizes a tiny, perfect tube of aquamarine. Sad how the individual colours are nowhere near as intriguing once isolated: the beauty lies in the comparison; dazzling emerald against dull sepia and jarring lime; deep burnt umber throbbing through amidst dirt brown and dusky yellow. Variation is what induces the greatest to shine.

He has been here for perhaps hours, simply looking, admiring, selecting. Art stores hold a particular grandeur. Already he is burdened by a brimming basket of supplies. Charcoal – so light, and brittle, and irresistible – like the delicate, hollow bones of a bird. A selection of canvasses, cunningly wrapped around the neat wooden frames; sometimes prettier when blank and expectant than when coated in an imperfect layer of paint. Soft-tipped pens in a shade of deep black. Slim metal trays, filled with treasures such as graphite sticks, malleable erasers, waxy blocks of colour, vivid watercolour pencils.

A chance look to the left reveals a sight – a person – he is utterly unprepared to encounter.

"What the _hell _are you doing _here_?" Romano employs the catch-all response to what is effectively a foreign invasion: unmitigated belligerence, sharp enough to cause a handful of unfortunate passersby to wince.

Germany blinks, stupidly. He tilts his head towards the large queue at the till. Sure enough, there is Veneziano, arms laden with art supplies, conversing happily with an overwhelmed looking stranger. He catches sight of Romano and waves, enthusiastically. Romano raises a limp hand in return, before fixing Germany with another heated glare.

"Veneziano wanted to buy some supplies for the picture you are going to paint together," says the invader, with annoyingly bewildered calm.

Anger and humiliation flush through Romano, who had forgotten Veneziano's half-formed plans – or, rather, dismissed them as most likely hypothetical. "The... the sky through the winter trees," he murmurs, abashed. Shame battles with fury, and the former, whilst putting up a valiant effort, falls. Thus, his next comment: "Why'd he bring _you_, then? What do you know about art, for God's sake?"

Germany, for an instant, looks slightly affronted – a fact which Romano perceives with satisfaction. Yet it is fleeting – and soon smoothed over by that insufferable mask of patience. "Germans have art too, Romano," he says, _smiling. _"Difficult as it may be to believe." (That – that was irony, wasn't it? Irony – from the macho potato bastard? Frankly, Romano had hardly believed him capable of emotion, let alone vague mockery. The effect is somewhat disarming.)

"Tch. You have no idea what art _is_," counters Romano. Yes, admittedly the challenge is an attempt to steer the conversation into the usual territory of his obsession; Romano is intrigued, despite himself, to know what this brother-stealer has to say on the topic which has always confounded him. If only to establish what art is _not. _Process of elimination, if given sufficient time, may yield definitive results – and Romano has centuries.

Then, if the resultant discussion evolves to resemble something close to civility – well, Romano can always blame it on the paint fumes, which are, in all fairness, causing his head to feel as though it has been drained of all content and stuffed with cotton wool as replacement.

"You are talking to a Nation who has been a defining force in the development of world culture –" begins Germany, with a stern sigh – but seemingly thinks better of torturing Romano with a long defence of his significance in the history of art. Instead, he changes tack. "All right. You want me to define art? Art is a reflection of the One Idea." He pronounces the latter two words in insistent capitals.

Romano snorts, unconvinced. "There's more than one idea," he scoffs (steadfastly refusing to capitalise the word). "That's the _point._" Obviously. Thank God Germany is not making any sense.

Germany shakes his head; all semblance of irritation has dissipated, leaving only the long-suffering teacher, rephrasing a particularly problematic concept for the benefit of a bright but ill-informed student. Patronising bastard. (_Take the question _seriously, _why don't you? _Romano refuses to be fobbed off with a handful of dry platitudes.)

"No, you misunderstand me," says Germany, eager to rectify the mistake. _Shut up, shut _up_ – stop sounding reasonable – yell something – be proven wrong!_ "I don't mean to say that there is only one idea. That would be ridiculous. I was referring to the universal spirit: the concept which unites us all."

"People are different. I don't want to be united with _you._" Well, that was truly awful phrasing.

"Humanity, Romano. The spirit of _humanity. _Are you all right? Your cheeks have gone all flushed."

"'S'the fucking paint fumes," he mumbles.

Germany nods, abstractedly. "I do not mean the images or words – clearly those contain different concepts. I mean it elicits the same emotions. Or, rather – the same depths _beneath _the surface emotions, be they sadness or awe. All art, underneath the marks of its age, or place, holds to the same principles – brushes the tips of its fingers with the ineffable."

"Somehow I doubt Giorgio de Chirico was trying to say the same thing as Donatello."

"Does intention really matter?"

And somehow, despite all of the differences, they are back to France again – France, and art being formed by the viewer's response. _Else it remains static, limited_.

"You can't say that everything is varied on the surface, but the same underneath," insists Romano. "That's bullshit. _Ineffable _is just a vague way of saying you don't know what you're talking about. We're all reaching towards something, sure, but it's _different. _Although if you can't even explain it, it may as well be either. Anyway – not everyone conforms to identical values!"

"That's not what I mean either," says Germany, brow furrowed, pensive – more perplexed than annoyed. "I meant that art drives at a deeply buried connection between everything."

And here, they most _definitely _return to France – and Romano somehow cannot bear the link – the way everything seems to _flow _– sharpening, contrasting, yet assimilating. He feels as though he has inadvertently hit upon some vast, underlying _theme, _to which everything all at once conforms. All flows in the same, multicoloured channel – strands of colour, like wires, heavily entwined, _entangled _– form a seething rope, spanning miles into the recesses of his mind, vanishing into an inscrutable speck in the far-flung distance of a desert. Nothing remains outside it save Romano himself, the isolated observer, striving in vain to comprehend , forced to shield his eyes with his fingers to deflect the brilliance of its glare.

The world, like tightly woven lace. Romano, a loose thread.

"What if that makes the artist an outsider?" he murmurs, helplessly, the returning knot in his throat threatening to distort the words.

Germany looks _concerned, _and Romano feels the urge to tear his face off. Or at least tear down that damned expression; to smudge the paint, erase the sketch – obscure the entirety of that worry with heavy charcoal lines...

Romano collects himself. "It's all nonsense," he manages to force out, semi-coherently.

Another flicker of something deeper than grudging tolerance stirs in Germany's face. "All right," he says, _finally _showing a flash of combativeness and speaking in direct reaction to the challenge. "If there is no universality, where does God feature? Surely that is a common motivation? God – or, to the secular, an impulse to preserve the ephemeral."

"_Stupido,_" Romano bites back. "God doesn't care if the ideas are the same or different. God just wants beauty."

"So art separates itself into the divine aesthetic and the human intellectual?" Germany dares to reveal the suggestion of a half smile. Romano thinks spitefully that his face would do better to remain a blank canvass; the images presented are of the sort which unsettle, and topple beliefs.

"_No,_" says Romano, his vehemence hopefully veiling the fact that _he does not know. _

With this silent admission, it all unravels. Everything – all the theories he has accumulated and hoarded, all the multicoloured strands, all the soft strings of fabric – everything falls apart. Phrases which once guided disintegrate to inconsequential babble. All meaning seems to spill over and fall away, like water through cupped hands, or like the fragile, rotting petals of an October blossom. Leaving Romano the lone observer of wreckage and rubble.

Impelled by an unexpected resolution, he straightens and lets his legs carry him towards the door – speed, swiftness, _move, _damn it, _move..._

Germany starts after him. "Where are you going, Romano?"

_Stop calling me by my name; it's just too close and smothering for comfort._

"Proving that my brother doesn't have the monopoly on artistic whimsy," he barks over his shoulder by way of response, maintaining a fast, even pace as he departs from the store, blotting out Germany's confused shouts and Veneziano's worried calls. Constant motion to keep the impulse flowing through his veins – to cling tightly to the inspiration before it can flee.

He returns to the place which he and Veneziano frequented all that time ago. A small throng of trees, overlooked by a grassy slope, ideal for relaxation. They are leafless now – save a couple of dried little husks still clinging to the topmost branches. The midday winter chill has invaded the air, sending out tendrils of damp which snake through the grass, the breeze, the exposed skin of his face. Somewhere behind a vague mist of clouds lies the ineffectual sun, its glare subdued by the thin, grey blanket.

He sets up the easel with some difficulty on the uneven ground. Slowly, methodically, he uncaps each pristine new tube of paint. Assembles the neat new brushes in order of thickness. Pours bottled water into a little plastic tray. Turpentine, linseed oil, divested of their greasy packaging.

Pencil hits canvass with an audible scratch. He spends as much time as he needs, and more, over the preliminary sketch – no cause for rush; the dark will set in eventually, but his eyes are sharp, and the moon will provide sufficient illumination. He blocks out the requisite shapes – first tentatively, then with increasing confidence, each stroke of pencil bolder and darker than the last.

Once finished, he holds the work at arm's length, submitting the outline to a critical examination. Before him peers the rough beginnings of a face. He had meant for it to be Veneziano. Yet some slip of the fingers induced him to sharpen the jaw line, widen the eyes, flatten the hair – until it resembles his brother closely, but does not capture the full essence, or in any way match his intentions. Instead, it conforms to an uneasy image pulsing uninvited in his mind – one which seems to be steering the pencil like some ghostly hand.

Accordingly, when he applies the first careful daubs of paint, the colours are not so light as would be required for his initial plans. The bloom in the cheeks is not subtle, but markedly rosier than expected; the hair is composed of darker threads, in which burnt umber features prominently. Meticulously, he shapes the contours of his own nose, shadows the soft underside of his own chin, applies colour and life to his own inquisitive eyes. The mouth is painted neutral, dormant. As the shadows tiptoe gradually closer, as though uncertain of their precise cue, he continues to work without pause, thoroughly engrossed in the task. With brush poised with precision over the developing canvass, stroke by stroke he discovers his own face.

And a whole range of forgotten feelings follow – despite the fact that it is irrelevant; it is the physical movement of the paintbrush which defines the piece, not the concurrent ebb and flow of his own emotions – despite all this, he revels in the discovery. All at once, he has relinquished the tight reign he hitherto forced himself to place upon his insecurities. For the first instance in centuries, he allows his presence to be felt on the surface of the painting – simultaneously subject and object.

In the end, there are no fireworks of understanding. In the end, the dark encloses the painting altogether, so that once completed, it is obscured.

In the end, he never shows Veneziano. Or anyone, for that matter, although he is often seized by the inexplicable urge to thrust it before Germany's unsuspecting eyes.

It was always a personal matter from the outset. On occasion, it is rather thrilling to remember the illicit presence of an unseen painting, safely locked in the confines of his attic and his mind. A piece that could reveal much, if ever anyone were invited to look. As it is, he does not yet feel ready.

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

It is a non-traditional France-Spain-Prussia gathering – the usual variety being marginally more drunken and markedly more illegal. They are playing an elaborate game of France's devising called: 'let's all be serious _artiste _types and hold a philosophical gathering'. Romano is just waiting for someone to break out the absinthe, to make things suitably bohemian. That, or flamethrowers to make things suitably riotous; Prussia has acquired both an industrial torch and fireworks, for the sake of indulging everyone's inner pyromaniac in the most aesthetically pleasing way possible. In fact, the latter was likely the only feature to win him over to the idea in the first place.

Each has brought their own collection of extra guests, with the problematic qualification of 'significant others' being replaced by simply 'significants'. Prussia invited Germany, who brought Veneziano – the latter nestled contentedly in the crook of the former's arm. Spain brought Romano, who is most decidedly not nestling – merely using Spain as a convenient leaning post. France, as is his custom for reasons no-one to date has been able to fathom, has dragged along a reluctant England.

Sprinkled around the squashy seats and cushions which compose Spain's living room, they lie haphazardly around each other, Roman-style, _frittata _in one hand, alcoholic beverage of choice in the other.

The conversation, after darting confusedly in many inexplicable, France-led directions, has – courtesy of Veneziano – circled to rest around art – a subject of which Romano rather tires.

Spain enthuses about something – Goya, it seems – with one arm slung around Romano's shoulder, hand circling occasionally to emphasise a particular point; a fact which Romano decides to leave unchallenged for perhaps another five minutes, as he is in a tolerant mood. "But sometimes it's just too difficult to actually express what you want to and to have it understood!" he is saying.

"Indeed," agrees France, taking a sip from England's wine glass, which he has neatly expropriated. "Nothing can encapsulate the ethereal purity of an artistic vision. We content ourselves with the secondary results."

"Elliot concurs," says England, wryly. "_It is impossible to say just what I mean,_"he quotes. Mild laughter ensues.

"There you go," says France. "That's your ontological uncertainty – backed up by the book. Words – and the limitations thereof." He rests a delicate hand on England's shoulder, which is instantly shoved away.

"So paint it, then," says Romano, doing the same with regards to Spain's arm.

Another murmur of laughter circles through the room. Romano bristles, until he realises it is appreciative, not mocking. A smile twitches hesitatingly on his face, before hastily vanishing.

A lull in the conversation.

"Let's blow shit up," says Prussia, breaking the silence.

"Oh God yes."


End file.
